Granny's Big Teeth
by The Death of Mayflies
Summary: A Grim Story With A Twist! Featuring lunatic shape-changers, comatose animal-lovers and plant tips for the handy gardener. Guest-starring a well-known witch - guess which? FINISHED Please RnR...
1. Granny's big teeth

He was a lone wolf in the true sense of the word. Mangy and unkempt, his pelt was as far from glossy as it could possibly be(1). Through it, the outline of his ribs could be clearly seen. His sides were criss-crossed with old scars, and his paws were cracked and sore. Originally from one of the remotest areas in Uberwald, he had strayed far from his pack's old hunting grounds. Ousted by the alpha male of the pack, who had recognised trouble when he smelt it, he had made his way across the mountains, moving aimlessly through endless forests. And now here he was, living like a thief, hiding during the daylight hours, travelling by night. He skirted the settlements he encountered, looking for easy kills. But even so he hadn't eaten in over a week, and that was beginning to take its toll.

He was a werewolf, and these days that wasn't as easy at it used to be. His entire being revolted against that notion, but it was still a fact that humans were getting more and more difficult to hunt. He had stayed in this region for two months now, and it was high time to move on. Not that a lone human was much of a challenge compared with just about any other animal, naked, slow and defenceless as they were, but in groups they were increasingly assertive and confident, and that made his life more difficult. He was forced to keep constantly on the move, seeking out the weakest – the outcasts, the lonely, the very young and the very old. He would snatch a babe from its cradle, carry off a homeless beggar drunk on scumble(2), or ambush a travelling salesman and pick his victims off quickly before the posses came after him with fire and silver-tipped steel. 

He had come to detest humans, to hate them with a glowing rage for what they had forced him to become. They were nothing! They had no right to fight back! But he wasn't getting any younger, and so he was forced to hunt them anyway. His mother – the bitch – had told him about the time when humans were morsels of food to be had as snacks any time the pack so desired, and look at him now! Hiding, skulking in the shadows of the forest. 

He could feel himself beginning to froth around the snout as he got ever more agitated, but willed himself to calm down again. Only the tip of his tail twitched a little, betraying the pent-up anger. He couldn't afford any mistakes now. It had been too long since his last meal, and his stomach was screaming at him. This was too good an opportunity to miss. He had to make sure he did this right. 

Across the little clearing in the forest, the ancient, lonely cottage seemed to shimmer in the silvery moonlight.

-----

The werewolf's nostrils flared where he lay in the bracken. His phenomenal sense of smell took in all the scents of the night. He could smell the dew forming on the grass, the insects asleep in the trees around him, and the trees and the shrubs themselves, sweet and filled with chlorophyll. The scents from several of the plants in the little herb garden in front of the cottage were unknown to him, and he took the time to note them. He was sure that they didn't present a hazard, but it didn't do to get careless. It was important to ensure that he didn't miss anything. Only too often had there been unexpected woodcutters showing up at the crucial moment, forcing him to flee while his stomach groaned in disappointment. It was a grim world, all right.

Continuing his olfactory recognisance, he took in the scents of the small, furry creatures of the forest, the mice and rodents shivering in their holes, holding their breath. His ears twitched involuntarily as he picked up the rapid little drumbeats of their fear-stricken hearts, and his mouth watered. Again, he forced himself to focus on the real prey. Rabbits and wood mice simply wouldn't sate his appetite(3). 

Further away were larger animals. A small group of woodland deer was making their way tentatively towards the brook he had passed earlier, and noises somewhere further downstream indicated that a grizzly was quenching his thirst there. He had picked up the bear's scent earlier that day and knew it to be an old, battle-scarred male. He had stayed well away from it, since he knew that it would make a deadly foe if disturbed, but otherwise it didn't present a problem(4). 

A movement at the edge of his black and white vision caught his attention, and his head swivelled back towards the clearing. A huge owl was landing on the rickety chimney, ascending clumsily onto the edge before shuffling into a more comfortable position. Its head moved in the particular way of all owls, rolling around as if disconnected from the body, and its amber eyes seemed to glow as it noticed the hidden carnivore. It gave him a long, thoughtful look, before seemingly deciding that the wolf didn't present a danger, and began cleaning its plumage instead.

The werewolf turned his attention back to the cottage itself. It was very old and so set into the ground that it looked like a half-sunken ship. The roof was thatched and so old that there were small trees growing on it. Most of the front wall was covered by some sort of creeper. It struck him that the whole house had a very organic feel to it, as if a part of the land itself had decided to try something new and had come up with this as a result. It was a very unusual thought for the werewolf, and for a moment this puzzled him, but then he concentrated on the task at hand once more.

The wind carried with it the soft scent of a dying fire, and this was good news to the werewolf. Apart from silver there was nothing he feared as much as fire, because fire could also kill him(5). But some embers in a stove didn't worry him, and so he continued to lie there, picking up various scents. There were the faint whiffs of dried herbs, the overpowering smell of goats from the now-empty shed behind the house, and the familiar smell of human excretions that emanated from the little outhouse some way away from the main building. 

If he concentrated really hard he could even hear the slow breathing of the old hag as she lay sleeping upstairs. It was the deep, death-like sleep of the really old, and it reassured him. He had scouted the area well, and had seen no one else. Hers was the only human scent that was fresh around the cottage, meaning that she hadn't had a visitor for over a week, which was good. At the same time it was infuriating. To think that he had been reduced to seeking out little, old, stringy grandmothers in their beds! But his hunger had to be sated, and so he forced himself to forget about the humiliation for the time being. 

Next time he wouldn't wait for this long before hunting, he promised himself. To hell with the risks! Perhaps later he could even find some chit of a girl down in the village he had passed on the way here. It was only a couple of miles away, after all, and once he had renewed his strength it would be easy to accomplish. He could be well away before dawn, and the villagers would never know what had happened. He salivated at the mere thought of all that succulent, tender meat.

Suddenly he heard the old grizzly move through the forest. It worried him for a moment, but not overly, since he had made very sure he was downwind from the old brute. It snuffled and snorted like a grumpy old man as it passed the cottage. The deer had obviously heard it, too, because he could hear the soft, rustling sound of them moving away trough the undergrowth. He lay still and waited, and as expected, the huge, rheumy-eyed creature rumbled on by without ever noticing the intruder. 

The owl hooted once – a lonely, eerie sound that echoed through the clearing. The wolf tensed. Would that stir his prey from its sleep? He listened intently from his hideout, but the sounds of the old woman upstairs never changed. She was obviously sound asleep. It was time to get going. The moon was already starting its descent, and if he wanted to have time to digest the old bat _and_ find a kid he would have to get this over with quickly.

-----

He moved stealthily around the open space that surrounded the cottage, his body nothing but a shadow among the thousands of other shadows in the darkness underneath the trees. His senses were all focused on his prey now, as every careful step took him closer to the back door of the house. He had watched the old crone as she went about her tasks during the afternoon, and knew that the front door was never used, but also that the back door opened smoothly on well-oiled hinges that didn't creak at all. 

His ears strained to hear every little noise from the upstairs room. At the slightest change in the old biddy's heart rhythm or breathing he would be prepared to stop immediately, but nothing happened, and soon he stood on the doorstep of the little house. No normal wolf would go near a human dwelling, but it held no fear to a werewolf. Manipulating the door handle wasn't an easy task for a paw, but he had had plenty of practice over the years, and he managed to do it without so much as a sound. He bared his teeth, feeling the familiar ecstasy of an oncoming kill welling up inside of him. Now all he had to do was sneak up the stairs and then he would sink his teeth into the neck of the skinny old woman. It would be a quick, clean death, and then it would be time for him to feast.

He was so preoccupied with that thought that he didn't hear the bear coming from behind until it was almost on top of him. It had obviously started its run some way off, because when the werewolf turned around at the sound of the oncoming foe it was already running at top speed towards the cottage. 

For a fraction of a second the man who was a wolf stood still, unwilling to believe the testimony of his eyes, nose and ears, but then he tore away from the door, leaping out of the path of the onrushing behemoth. The bear's shambling gait belied its speed, so it was only the fact that the grizzly had to break or run headlong into the building that made it possible for the wolf to avoid the first sweep of its massive claws.

Once more the werewolf felt the embers of his ever-present fury alight. What manner of wizardry was this? He was sure that the bear hadn't noticed him before. Besides, bears – no matter how large – generally stayed well away from human dwellings. And even if they sometimes _did_ scavenge, they certainly didn't behave like this one had, rushing him like a troll would a surveying dwarf engineer. 

The wolf ran for cover under the trees, thinking to lose his attacker in the woods. But then curiosity got the better of him, and he stopped after only a couple of paces and turned to see the bear struggling to back out from the porch. 

A grizzly like this one was about four times the size of a fully-grown male wolf, and its claws and teeth were formidable weapons, but the werewolf was fairly confident that he could still deal with the attacker without great difficulty. A bear was a fearsome foe, but its intellect was no match for his. 

The important thing now was to avoid waking up the old biddy upstairs. He would take the dumb beast for a long run in the woods, and then he could shake it off at leisure. He allowed the bear to disentangle itself, and then stood waiting for its next move. It backed out and then rose to stand on its hind legs. The grizzled grizzly shook its massive head and touched its nose tentatively. It seemed that a splinter from the porch had stuck there, and the bear stared cross-eyed at the offending body part in comical confusion, making the werewolf snort in disgust at the brute's mindlessness.

The soft noise made the bear look up, and the wolf could see how the small, thickset eyes gleamed viciously at him, seemingly accusing him for the pain the bear was experiencing. Hurts, doesn't it, thought the werewolf derisively. Frankly, my bear, I don't give a damn.

The grizzly bear seemed to pause for a moment, almost as if it was listening to something, and then it came down on all fours again and started moving intently towards the wolf. This suited the man-wolf just fine, and he trotted off towards the edge of the forest, making sure that he kept his pursuer close enough to tempt him on, but not so close that there was any risk of another rush attack. He couldn't risk getting caught in a bear hug(6), but he had done this sort of thing before, and knew that he could easily get rid of the clumsier animal once they got far enough into the forest. Then he could double back and still have time to feed.

He had reached the shadow underneath the first trees when he realised that something was wrong. The blasted beast wasn't following! Normally you could count on it being an easy task to keep bears interested. They would lumber on after anything that moved, and would do so indefinitely out of sheer bloodymindedness if you gave them the right encouragement, but of course _this_ one had to be different! It had simply stopped as soon as the wolf moved away from the little space around the cottage that, for want of a better word, would have to be called a garden.

The werewolf would have sworn and cursed if he could, but that wasn't possible in his present shape, so he did something that by rights should be a lot more effective. He retraced his steps, moving back towards the bear with canines showing and his hackles bristling in silent challenge. He was speaking Wolf, but the insult should be just as stinging in Bear. 

The outrageous manner had the desired effect. The bear retorted with an angry snuffle and began moving towards the insolent dog once more. The wolf let the bear get tantalisingly close before he turned and ran again, but the result was the same. As soon as he reached the edge of the wood the bear stopped, its massive legs coming to a halt in a disorderly fashion.

And now a strange dance began. The man-wolf, eager to get rid of this unexpected guard, would trot around it, coming at the bear from all directions, trying to provoke the desired reaction. The grizzly would follow half-heartedly and make sure that it was always staying between the intruder and the little cottage. This continued for almost an hour, with the werewolf becoming increasingly desperate, taking ever greater chances. He would stand and wait for the giant guard, his legs ramrod straight and his muzzle set in a ferocious snarl, and dash away at the very last moment. Or he would run past the slower bear so close to it that only his fabulous speed made it possible for him to avoid being caught in the grizzly's paws. Several times the bear almost got him, and his already matted pelt bore the marks of the enormous claws on both sides.

At last, with the moon beginning to set behind the dark forest, the wolf made a last attempt to fool his adversary into action. Sauntering past the bear at no distance at all, trotting nonchalantly in a half-circle around it, he crossed into the little field where the old woman grew her vegetables. It was a move borne in utter frustration. If he didn't eat soon he would grow too weak. He couldn't run to fight another day – it had to happen tonight! – and so he let the great bear get closer than ever before.

But suddenly the bear didn't seem inclined to follow him at all. Before, the bear wouldn't follow him when he moved away from the cottage, but now it seemed unwilling to pursue him at all. The wolf stopped, checking to see what was wrong _this_ time, but he couldn't find anything. The grizzly had simply stopped at the edge of the plantation and stood peering at the lycantrope with a hesitant, puzzled look on its face.

The werewolf stood still, panting with exhaustion, waiting for the bear for what felt like the hundredth time. The forest was very quiet, and above the thumping of his own heart he could still hear the old woman's slow, almost hypnotic heartbeat, still sound asleep upstairs. Apart from that, all he could hear was the rustling of the leaves of the plants around him, and the low, spluttering breathing of the grizzly, as it paced back and forth at the edge of the little herb garden.

The odd behaviour of the bear puzzled the werewolf, too, and so he didn't pay attention to the vegetation around him until it was too late. He didn't notice anything until he tried to move and couldn't. Roots and thorny creepers had entangled his paws with the kind of strength that can send a tender sapling through inches of concrete. For a moment he didn't realise how serious it was, but when he tried to gnaw through them he almost panicked. They were so tightly wound around his legs that he couldn't get to them unless he was prepared to chew through his own flesh and bones to free himself. He was trapped more efficiently than a bear trap could ever have hoped to achieve. _A bear trap?_ No. It _couldn't_ have. . .? 

He looked up to see the bear still there, right on the edge of the garden, licking its chops in a nervous manner. But now the man that was a wolf that was trapped had other things to worry about, because now he noticed how the flowers around him seemed to move as if by their own accord, and the flowers looked _sharp_, somehow. Petals that ought to have looked harmless suddenly seemed frightfully aggressive, and just when he told himself to calm down, that he was being silly, that there was nothing some plants could do to him, the first of the flowers _snapped_ at him. 

He tried to jump sideways to get away from the predatory vegetables, but since his feet were entrapped he simply fell over. More sprouting creepers raced over his rib-case and neck, tying him down even more securely. Now he _would_ have chewed off his legs to get away, but by now it was all too late. Several dozen flowers were hovering over his fallen shape, moving blindly but purposefully towards him, all the while making little chomping noises. The wolf's sharp teeth were of no use to him here. He tried to change shape, hoping to use his human hands to free himself, but the iron fist of panic held him in a vice like grip, preventing him to think clearly enough, blocking that last possible escape route.

-----

In the still of the night, a dreadful howl rose to the moon only to be cut off abruptly mid-sentence, and after that the silence returned. The rustling of the plants may have seemed a little noisier than usual, but apart from that there was nothing to indicate what had just happened(7). The owl on the chimney blinked once, twice, slowly, in the inscrutable way of all owls.

After a while the bear walked off slowly into the forest. It was a little confused about what had happened, but knew from experience that there would be a large bowl of blueberries waiting for him at the edge of the clearing every evening for a week after tonight. The grizzly also knew that, come winter, there would be a space available in the unused goat-shed, should he have need for it. The shed smelled, but it was undoubtedly warmer there, buried deeply in the hay, than lying on the cold floor of his cave when the wind blew from the Hub. All in all it wasn't a bad deal.

And upstairs in her cottage, unperturbed on top of her bed, the usual old cardboard sign held firmly in her hands and a slight smile on her face, Granny Weatherwax slept on.

**************************************************************************************************************************************************

1 But we'll gloss over that…

2 It's a drink, it's done with apples – well, mainly apples – and it's what yeast bacteria use to entice their kids to finish up the spinach. 

3 The cavernous appetite of werewolves is well known. The scientific explanation is that shape changing requires a lot of energy. This puts an enormous strain on the lycantrope's metabolism, thus causing the hunger that in turn forces him to eat copious amounts of food. However, this is rarely a consolation for the werewolf's victims.

4 He might be a lunatic, but that didn't mean that he was completely mad, after all.

5 As has been proved by several Igors, there is indeed more than one way to skin a cat. Likewise, there are in fact more than two ways to kill a werewolf, even though the other ways are less well known. Perhaps that's just as well.

6 Werewolves are supposedly impervious to anything but steal and fire, but even though they regenerate quickly from just about any wound or illness they still need time to do so, and in the meantime they are, of course, more easily vulnerable.

7 He had been a lone wolf for a long time, and he certainly had no friends who would mourn his passing, but at least there would always be flowers on his grave.


	2. Author's notes

Author's notes… Well, that may be pushing it a bit, but since some questions have been asked, I thought I might as well put the answers here on the off chance that anyone else is interested.

Here goes: I was asked by someone how this story came about in the first place, and the truth is that it appeared out of the blue one night just as I was falling asleep. The scene just unfolded itself very neatly, right in front of my mind's eye, and all I had to do was memorise it. Then it took me two pretty long sessions in front of my laptop to get it out of my system, and some more fine-tuning to get all the details sorted, but essentially it was a pre-made package. I felt the way Hwel must be feeling all the time… ;-)

Someone else questioned why my stories never result in anything. Here I have to say that I disagree very strongly with that sentiment. My DW stories result in one thing above all else: they take the reader back to a point where nothing has changed in comparison with Pterry's canon, and that's a whole different thing! It is quite a lot harder to fit a story into the frames that are given by the original author than to just run amok with his or her characters. I'm not saying that it wouldn't be fun, too, but that's just not the way I write. I respect Pratchett way too much to kill off his heroes (or pair them off with each other for that matter…). Of course, everyone's entitled to their own opinion.

Finally, it's been said that Granny's Big Teeth is similar to an episode in Witches Abroad. Sure it is – there are so many variations on the Red Riding Hood theme that it's hard to avoid similarities all together, but what started me on this was a throwaway line in one of Pratchett's other books. He said something about the plants in Granny's garden moving independently of the wind. That was all, and it set me thinking about what those particular vegetables could be. Now, since it's a well-known fact that a certain author has a penchant for carnivorous plants, the rest of my thinking is easily imaginable. Besides, I had always wanted to write a werewolf story, and a stray loner like this one could easily come across Granny without realising what he was up against. So there you have it. I think it's essentially a completely different story from the one in WA. Of course, I may have borrowed some here or there, but then, to be fair, so has Granny…


End file.
